From Under the Shadows
by BandGeek58407
Summary: From under the shadows of Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital bursts the truth so long ignored. H/W


**A/N: Three connected drabbles, first two being dialogue only. I had more, but the others didn't work as well.**

"…House?"

"Yes. What other friends do you have at the asylum?"

"…"

"What, I'm gone barely a month and already you've lost your bantering skills?"

"No, it's just—I didn't know they let you make phone calls."

"Phone _call_. Singular. I'm only rationed one, budget cuts and all."

"How do those even correlate…? Wait. You _aren't _allowed phone calls, are you? You snuck out to call me in the middle of the workday, when I might not have even been available? House—"

"Save the lecture, Wilson. I've already got the Cliffnotes here highlighted and dog-eared."

"I should let you go before they catch you."

"Come on, this isn't prison!"

"…"

"…fine. I'll talk to you when or _if_ I ever get out of here—"

"House."

"What?"

"…I miss you."

"…"

"Are you still there?"

"…"

"House?"

"I miss you too."

X-X-X

"I'm doing _what_?"

"Dr. Nolan recommended it. You know you shouldn't live on your own this soon after being released."

"I'd have appreciated it if someone told me first."

"You're not convincing anyone. I can see you grinning from the reflection in the window."

"Sneaky bastard. But, contrary to popular belief, cars don't drive on my face. _Watch the road._"

"…"

"…still in Amber's apartment?"

"Yeah. I know it's not the best sleeping arrangement, but you can take the bed if you want."

"Aw, no sleepovers?"

"…"

"I was kidding. Lose your sense of humor, too?"

"It's around here somewhere. But if you're not okay with this, I mean…I'm sure you could stay…somewhere else. Chase and Cameron probably have room, and…Cuddy, too probably—"

"I'm perfectly _okay_ with it. If you had been listening, I only had issues with the lack of communication. Besides…I've had enough isolation to last me for a while."

"Glad to hear it."

"…heaven forbid you need to use that hand to drive. The meaningful shoulder pat can wait until we get back to Princeton."

"You know one thing that _has_ really changed?"

"Enlighten me."

"You've gotten a lot worse at hiding when you're happy."

X-X-X

The autism benefit this year falls exactly one month since House's release—how fitting, except instead of a gargantuan poker tourney, it more resembles a formal dance. Goaded into attending, if only to diffuse the gossip circulating the nurse's station, House stands on the periphery, a glass of liquor in hand and leaning against a wall. He's not alone by any means: a few of the older surgeons look in even worse shape than he does, and they occupy themselves discussing the latest news on Phil Mickelson.

But he's not paying them any mind—his eyes are glued to one figure in particular amid the mob

of twirling bodies, casually swaying with a certain dean of medicine. In no time, it seems, he's already limped beside them.

"Mind if I cut in?" he mutters gruffly.

"Oh," says Wilson, a bit surprised at his arrival. "Yeah, sure." Motioning to Cuddy. Eyeing his bad leg suspiciously.

"No, you idiot."—and catches them both off guard, then lowering his voice for whatever reason they can't place. "I want to dance with you."

Cuddy smiles more from confusion than anything and meanders off to chat with Thirteen and Taub, and this once House doesn't watch her go. "Yes. I want to dance," he repeats, "with _you_."

"_Can_ you?"

"Shut up." Sighing, he carefully places his free hand on Wilson's hip and arches an eyebrow, testing the waters, checking, checking, constantly checking… "You're not overanalyzing." Statement, not a question: no words babble from Wilson's mouth as he places his own hands on House's shoulders.

"Why should I? You…just wanted to dance." A shrug—what else could he say?

The music is smooth, casual, some mix of light jazz that House can almost whistle along to. They too begin to sway, or as much as House's leg would allow, as the tempo sings them along to their own bubble of the dance floor, typical small talk passing between them like normal, because this feels normal, this _is_ normal—then they realize their foreheads are touching, House looking down his nose into Wilson's eyes and something just clicks.

"I think I forgot something in my office earlier today," Wilson breathes. "Do you…want to come with me?"

No one notices them slip into the elevator; no one in maintenance notices when said elevator is manually stopped between two floors nowhere near Wilson's office.

"H-House…" Wilson stutters. "I…I think we should kiss." Silence. "I mean"—voice getting smaller with every word, laced with anxious, desperate fear—"I really want to kiss you…"

House stares at something distant in his head, eyes never settling on anything for too long, before he takes a few deliberate steps and effectively backs Wilson up into the wall, confusion echoing behind every blink of his bright blue irises, when he pushes his lips onto Wilson's own.

Breaks away quickly. A moment taken for pondering, analyzing. A conclusion.

This time, he approaches slower, his mouth working tenderly against Wilson's, their hands gripping the back of each other's necks for life support—tongues dive in, they twist their heads for a new angle, and suddenly Wilson is unraveling under House's fingers and he can feel his composure being pulled along for the ride, one he never knew he…

"_What matters most to you?" Dr. Beasley asked with a knowing glint in her eye. _

He knows she had beaten him at his own game but about what he had no clue—until now.

He has what matters most in his arms, in love, in love, in love and meaning it. No way is this going to be a one night stand: this one night will stand forever until fire and brimstone come crashing down from the heavens; and even then, they will be secure in the other's embrace.


End file.
